The Fall

Summer ended in a day.

One day I was ogling the shirtless men jogging sweat drenched in the park, the next I was kicking through fat, orange leaves. All the blues turned to gray and the air grew cold.

In the summer I celebrated my 42nd birthday alone in an afterthought cafe. Friends had made lukewarm suggestions to hangout, all easily averted. My perennial desire for a happy birthday blow-job went unrequited.

My fling with A was unsurprisingly short-lived. A week of increasingly flirty texting led up to an evening of kink that somehow managed to strike a balance between sweetness and filth. He in a leather harness and me in a chastity device.

Later, standing naked at his window, looking out over China Town, he came out of the bathroom and remarked on the view.

Another week of decreasingly flirty texts followed by an awkward walk through the throngs at Pride. His hand kept reaching for mine, and my hand kept pulling away. He seemed to know every tall, beautiful man there, and the only people I recognized were the people I wanted to avoid. We ran into his friends and were unable to extricate ourselves from them. A quartet of Millennials all determined to be more minutely unlabeled than the next.

If you ever want to feel old, go day-drinking with a group of 20somethings.

Every time they spoke, all I could see were a school of toddlers with pacifiers in their mouths. They were all still idealistic, pretty and perfectly diverse, uniform in their smooth, unwrinkled skin. Even though they were all significantly nicer than me, I disliked them all both individually and collectively. Impossible not to feel like a cynical, withered gnome, alarmingly out of place among them.

After drinking all day and standing in the sun, A got sick and went home. I walked him to the street car, and walked back to my apartment distilled with the prescience  that our romance was over.

There were other men as the summer bore on. A string of happy hour dates where the line between desire and desperation was rimmed in the salt of Margarita glasses. Nice men with 401(k)s and Mexican vacations. But none of them thrilled me.

I am concerned that I’ve become incapable of being thrilled.

A bleak future where my corpse is devoured by a dozen angry cats in a dingy, studio apartment stinking of urine seems increasingly likely.

My mother calls to tell me that she and my aunt toured the nursing home that they intend to deposit my grandmother in. She’s become more and more unmanageable for my mother and her sisters to take care of on their own.

“I hope you got a good look around, because you’ll probably end up there.” I tell her.

“I will kill myself before I get like that,” she says. Then we have an actual discussion about the best ways for her to kill herself when the time comes.

“I can’t shoot myself or cut myself,” she says. “It’ll have to be pills.”

“But pills are so unreliable,” I say.

“Not if you take enough of them.” She says.

The day they put my grandmother in the home, she calls me crying.

“I know you feel guilty,” I say. “But it’s for the best.”

Her very first day there, the nursing home calls my mother to tell her that my grandmother had a fall from her wheelchair. They are legally obligated to inform her. This does not instill any confidence in my mother.

“They aren’t watching her.” She says. “They aren’t feeding her the food she likes.”

Less than a week later my grandmother is back home. My mom and my aunts are back to watching her in shifts. To bathing her, changing her, doling out her medications. Some days she sits catatonic in her wheelchair and others she is lively, chattering away and seems almost like her old self. Some days she curses at my mother and aunts as they try to change her clothes. Other days she’s docile.

For her 93rd birthday she eats ice cream. Melting and sticky in a hot, Texas August. Back porch flies and hotdog buns. My grandmother, the forgetful matriarch. Mother of eleven children, and an uncounted number of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Widow. The sweet and simple maker of banana pudding, has become purse lipped and confused.

“Who’s going to take me home?” She asks.

“You are home, mama.” My mother says.

On her 67th birthday, my mother vows that she isn’t getting older. “I can handle being in my 60s,” she says, “But I absolutely cannot fathom being 70. I’m staying 67 forever.” I agree with this plan.

In lieu of a romantic life, I workout obsessively.

“I can’t get over how buff you are,” my friend Matt comments one day when I run into him on the way home from the grocery store.

I casually flex. We talk about our jobs. His writing gig. My promotion. The novel I still sometimes pretend to be writing. I agree to watch their cats when he and his boyfriend (also Matt) spend a week in Hawaii.

Instead of dating, I spend evenings with friends. Movie nights with tator-tot casseroles and le boisson de le maison. Game nights around comfort food tables with obscene Pictionary and rated R card games. Dinners and brunches where the conversation turns to politics, and I absently check my phone to see if anyone has messaged me who I could possibly be thrilled by.

After months of no contact, I begin to play Dungeons & Dragons with a queer group with none other than A acting as Dungeon Master. It’s a warm, fun group. Hot tea and snacks. The rolling of dice. Although I’d initially hoped that the group would be a conduit for romance, it ends up being something else entirely. A nice excursion.

One day C calls crying. He’s broken up with his new boyfriend. It feels very strange to comfort a man that I spent over 7 years with, moved to different states with, tried to build a life with, as he is heartbroken by someone else. But, despite everything, he is still my best friend and I want him to be happy. So I become his long-distance confidant.

The days grow darker earlier.

I spend evenings listening to rain hit the fiberglass roof of the car port, curled up in a red, patchwork quilt that my grandmother made when she was around my age. I sip hot chocolate and watch movies or play video games. But there is the undeniable sense that all of these things could be improved with the addition of a co-conspirator. Some funny, sexy misanthrope to grow old with, to shake our bony fists at children traipsing across our imagined lawn.

Fall is my favorite season because I love weather, and sweaters, and striped scarves, and coffee cups, and pumpkins, and the changing colors, scary movies. Because in every coffeehouse, around every corner, buried in piles of leaves, and dripping off of rain drenched awnings there is this bristling energy, the possibility of romance. Not even just a possibility, a meaty, muscular thing that for a season seems not just potential, but inevitable.

 

 

 

 

 

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Three Strikes

“I’m never going to date again!” This was what I proclaimed to my faggles one Sunday over brunch.

Our table was a hangover of Bloody Mary’s, Diet Cokes, and guacamole.

“Liar,” was Sassy Bear’s succinct response, no-nonsense snark in a scarf with a pierced labret and Unabomber hair.

Of course I didn’t really mean that I would never date again for the rest of my life. But I did think it was probably a good idea to shift the attention away from boys for a while, and focus on myself. The rest of my life was going really well for a change. I managed to stay in the same job, the same apartment, and the same city for over a year. After years of wandering aimlessly around the country with C, the stability was welcome. So I vowed to forget about boys for the foreseeable future. I was going to save money, work on my supposed novel, and continue to enjoy some welcome solitude.

Almost immediately after imposing my moratorium on dating, I went on three dates with three boys in one week.

The first was thin and blond with designer glasses. Thirty-five and put together in a way that I admired, and I looked like I crawled out of laundry hamper by comparison. We met at the same Mexican restaurant that my faggles and I have brunch at every Sunday. In the evenings it’s crowded and trendy with long waits.

We stood outside amidst clusters of other couples and waited for them to text me that our table was ready. I know that we made small talk but the only thing I can remember of our entire conversation was the confirmation that his nipples are pierced.

I made the mistake of ordering an “Ultimate” Margarita with my meal which was entirely more tequila than I was prepared for. When the check arrived, I dropped the credit card slip on the ground without realizing it, and spent 10 minutes looking for it. When my date finally pointed out, I dropped my pen trying to pick it up.

As soon as we left the restaurant I realized I’d forgotten my leftovers that had been so carefully boxed up, and also my date’s name. While both the meal and the date had been pleasant, it didn’t ultimately seem worth it to go back for either.

Date number two was a ginger with a fondness for kink. We made plans to meet at a bar conveniently within walking distance for both of us. As I stepped out of my apartment, a tall, thin red head in a yellow t-shirt walked past. I was pretty sure it was my date, but not completely certain, so I didn’t say anything, I just creepily stalked him the two blocks to the bar. The muscles of his back beneath his t-shirt. His pale neck.

Even after we both walked into the same bar, I still wasn’t entirely sure it was him, so I ordered a drink and studied his pics on the app where we’d met. Finally I opted to trust the statistical probability and introduced myself. We had a fun conversation about fetishes and the flakiness of men in Seattle. The bar was playing 80s music, and I periodically paused to sing along.

In the middle of “Heart and Soul” by T’Pau, he told me, “My mom really likes this song.”

I couldn’t help thinking that his mom and I probably would have had more in common. Not long after that, because we lived on the same street, he walked me home and kissed me on the cheek at the door to my apartment.

The third, and final, of my awkward dating triumvirate was with a 39 year old man, who owned his own home in West Seattle, and who, via APP at least, had engaged me with his witty banter.

He had dark hair, and wore glasses. Taller than me, but so is everyone. He dressed like a J Crew mannequin, but it suited him. We met at a neuvo-Southern place that boasted booths made from old, church pews.

As he sidled up to me, he said, “Lance?” I could tell from the inflection that it was recognition, and as soon as we were standing face to face, I recognized him too. We’d briefly dated 13 years ago when I’d lived in Seattle the first time around.

I was surprised that he recognized me since, back then, I still had hair, didn’t have a beard, and wasn’t nearly as buff as I am now. He looked basically the same. I remembered exactly two pieces of information about him. 1). He was obsessed with Tina Turner, and 2). His father had killed himself. After the initial, awkward realization that this wasn’t our first date, we settled into a comfortable spot outside, and caught up on the past decade plus over fried pickles and poutine.

I told him about C, and living in NYC, Chicago, and Santa Barbara. He told me about his recent trip to Morocco, and another trip to Europe where he saw the world premier of the Tina Turner musical. Neither of us could remember why we’d stopped seeing each other before. While there was no spark of romance, the conversation flowed easily, and the evening was enjoyable, if a bit surreal.

Afterward we vowed to stay in touch this time around, but proceeded to do just the opposite.

When I got home, out of curiosity, I read through my old journals to discover why he and I had broken up. Apparently he’d had a falling out with my former bff, a musician, because he’d had the gall to talk during one of her shows, and this had been enough to drive a wedge between us.

One evening C called. We caught up. I listened to his complaints about life in San Diego, while he listened to my assurances that things would get better. He asked if I’d been on any dates lately. I admitted that I had. He told me about the guy that he’s been seeing. Ben. I tried to keep the conversation light, but I have to admit I was a little winded. It had been more than a year since I’ve even seen him, and of course both of us were going to date again. But hearing about it caught me by surprise.

Apparently he and Ben fight a lot, a stark contrast to the two of us who never fought, not even as I was getting ready to leave. While I wish C only happiness, and want everything to work out, I am just petty enough to take some satisfaction in hearing about his dating difficulties.

After three strikes, I renew my vow to take time off from dating. From all the bluster and bravado, the spilled drinks and awkward silences. I decide to spend more time with my friends. I go to movies. Play board games. The faggles even convince me to go to a Karaoke bar in a sketchy part of town called The Orient Express. It’s comprised of a bunch of old train cars spliced together, with surprisingly good food, and very stiff drinks. Our group reserved the Hong Kong room, which was wallpapered in  gold. We drank Mai Tais and ate Chinese finger foods. We took turns singing pop songs I’d never heard of. I was very disappointed that they didn’t have the Social Distortion song that I’d spent the week previous practicing in the shower.

In the end we all sang A-Ha’s, “Take on Me” together, and the thought of boys was expunged, replaced with camaraderie and the seminal hits of Mariah Carey.

The next night I was still basking in the warm afterglow of platonic companionship, and was content to curl up in bed with video games and a terrible horror movie from the 80s. Yet, I somehow became convinced to meet a 28 year old for drinks at a bar down the street.

“You’re even cuter than your pics.” He said, sitting across from me at the bar, half a drink in, his hand already on my knee.

He was absolutely beautiful, 6’2″, a fuzzy blond beard, hair pulled back over his forehead. I was all flailing arms and fidgety. He was charming.

I bought us blue jello shots from men in jockstraps for some unknown fundraiser, and no sooner had they slid down our tongues, his tongue was in my mouth. Making out with him, I tried not to overthink why a tall, gorgeous, 28 year old was actually enthusiastic about making out with a short, balding, angry, soon to be 42 year old. To my surprise, I was mostly successful in this regard. We kissed what I can only describe as an obscene amount at the bar.

He asked if I wanted to go get burgers with him.

I said I had to get up early the next morning, and should probably go.

We kissed some more outside. Me standing on my tip toes to reach him. Him hunched over in a stylish brown jacket.

The next morning I did get up early to go work out and to cheer on a friend who was running a marathon. Walking to the gym, down rain dampened streets where the homeless people were still sleeping, huddled in doorways, I got a text from the boy. His name is A. He thinks I’m cute and wants to make plans to see one another again.

So I decide to put a moratorium on my moratorium and to give the gorgeous man who is interested in me a chance. I know that I’ll continue to be a walking pile of insecurity, but the benefits of continued making out with said gorgeous man, for the time being, outweigh the fear of impending heartbreak and rejection that I’ve come to expect.

 

 

Okay, Cupid

“I’ve really gotten into water sports lately.” The handsome man across from me says. A pair of oversized glasses, a shaved head, a nose ring.

“I’m…pee shy.” I say. I start to take another sip of my drink, but think better of it. Subconsciously set the glass as far away from me as I can reach.

That was months ago, and the cute, kinky guy has since moved on to a relationship with his BDSM dom, while my most enduring relationship in the past year has been with a box of Girl Scout cookies. We probably weren’t sexually compatible anyway, but I’d have at least considered trying to please him. I have a fairly laissez faire attitude toward fetishes.

I haven’t seen C in over a year now. He’s still a constant presence, even in his absence. I’m consistently reminded of our time together. The time he nakedly sang his impromptu and mildly obscene “I love hot dogs” song. The time he was acting out the dance from Memoirs of a Geisha while walking down an icy sidewalk in Chicago and fell so gracefully it seemed like he did it on purpose. Weekends of wine bottles and frozen pizza, playing the original Legend of Zelda with our green, clay face masks.

Last week when we talked, he asked if I had a hot date that night.

It was the first time we’d talked about moving on since I left. He’d been seeing guys here and there. And there was a guy who’d moved to Minneapolis that he liked. I didn’t have a date, hot or otherwise, but I thought, after a year, maybe it’s time that I put myself out there. Maybe I’m ready to really start dating again.

The thing is, I don’t really know how to meet people anymore. Technology has changed since the last time I was single, and the organic way that people used to meet one another, in bars or coffee shops, has been replaced by apps that make it easy to dismiss people. I dutifully download the apps and vacillate between wholesome profiles extolling my nerdy persona, and slutty ones celebrating my muscular pecs.

I scroll through men with laundry lists of who they aren’t into. Through the greedy guys who already have boyfriends and are looking to hook up. The headless torsos, and the pics of men who don’t list their ages that are always taken from very, very far away.

Nearly everything is a turn off to me.

Poor grammar.

People that don’t read books.

Anyone who refers to me as “stud” or “bro.”

Unsolicited anus pics. (For the record, unsolicited penis pics are welcome…For science.)

The word, “Looking?”

Twenty-three year olds who say, “Hey daddy!” (I invariably ask for a paternity test, and only one guy was clever enough to tell me where to deposit my DNA sample).

I’m attracted to quiet, bookish types around my age, who are reasonably fit, and who think it’s fun to stay in on a Friday night playing video games and watching terrible movies. Ideally guys who don’t smoke or do drugs, but who love hot, sweaty monkey sex at reasonable hours. However, if I were to draw a Venn diagram of guys I am attracted to vs. guys who are attracted to me, I feel like there would be no overlap.

At brunch, I tell my faggles that I think I’m finally ready to date again.

“I don’t think you’re ready.” Sassy Bear says. “And that’s fine.”

Brian, on the other hand tells me about how he’s made some matches on OkCupid. I’m surprised to learn that OkCupid still exists. I used to have a profile when it first came out, long enough ago that I still had hair when I created it. I cannot remember my old login, and my old profile was certainly expunged after years of disuse. So I download the app on my phone and create a new profile for the modern Lance that I’ve become.

The idea behind the site is that you’ll be more compatible with people with whom you have things in common. It asks you a seemingly never ending series of questions to gauge what kind of person you are, from, Do you believe in god? to Would you sleep with a serial killer? I’m narcissistic enough that I enjoy answering questions about myself more than I do actually looking through profiles of prospective mates.

My matches are filtered based on my ideal date range and relationship type, single guys between the ages of 35-55 who are interested in monogamy. The pickings are decidedly slim. The site quickly runs out of results and advises that I try again later.

A few guys message me with whom I have little in common. Our exchanges are polite, but perfunctory. No one I chat with really excites my interest. Nor, do I suspect, do I excite theirs.Then one guy messages me who I’d chatted with sporadically on other apps over the past year.

He’s an artist who, from his pic, appears to be in good shape. Who is single and in my acceptable age range.

“Are we finally going to meet?” He asks.

I say, “Sure.”

Things start off on the wrong foot. He wants to meet at my place and seems miffed when I suggest we meet at a well lit public place with people nearby who can potentially hear my cries for help.

“You think I’m a knife killer?” He asks.

“I think you could be.” I say.

He finally agrees to meet at a sushi place near my apartment, then later changes his mind and says he’d rather go to a burger place instead. I put on a nice pair of pants and wait outside the appointed restaurant for his arrival. He is late, and I’m briefly relieved that I can potentially go back home and crawl into bed in my underwear and watch Predator II. Again.

But he arrives.

He is my height, which makes for a nice change. He’s handsome, if a little out of shape. Like many men who came of age in the 90s, he seems to have adopted the aesthetic of Ethan Hawke from Reality Bites and never moved on. This is not necessarily a deterrent to my finding one attractive.

“You say…I only hear what I want to…”

In the restaurant he doesn’t sit across from me, like a normal person, but instead sits awkwardly beside me, so I have to turn and face him, and we are uncomfortably close. I pick at a texturally unappealing veggie burger. He asks if he can have some of my grilled mushrooms.

I am at first relieved that he isn’t the pretentious person that I expected. But then dismayed that he is very into astrology, but not at all into sci fi. Our waitress disappears for an hour and we are trapped there making awkward conversation until she returns with the check.

By then it’s already after 10, and because I’m an old Lance, I’m already sleepy and wanting to call it a night. But he seems engaged, and I don’t know how to graciously stop things once they’ve started, so I keep rolling with it. Because he’s driven in from the suburbs, I feel obliged to get the check.

He doesn’t thank me.

I suggest maybe getting dessert somewhere, or coffee, or a drink. He does not want to do any of these things. I don’t really want to do any of those things either. Instead we take a walk to a nearby park, and stand, shivering beneath an orange street lamp.

He smokes a cigarette, and I internally cross him off my list of prospective suitors.

“Do you want to go back to your place?” He asks.

And because I still find it impossible to say no to people, I say, “Sure.”

We sit on my bed and listen to music. I do not believe in astrology, or ESP, or any hidden powers of intuition buried in the bean gray gloppiness of my cerebral cortex, but I can very clearly see how the night is going to progress and feel impotent to stop it from happening.

I see his doughy face coming toward me, and he kisses me. And it’s not the worst thing in the world. He’s not a terrible person, and he’s relatively good looking, and making out is kind of my thing. But I’m just not into him, and I’m frantically trying to think of a polite way to get rid of him, but, short of honesty, can think of nothing. Instead, we kiss for a while, and he shows no sign of stopping or leaving.

Finally it’s after 1 am, and he starts to settle in. He turns off the lamp on the bedside table and takes his sweater off. I do not want to have sex with another person I’m not attracted to. And I don’t want to have sex with anyone that I don’t know well enough to feel comfortable around.

“It’s late.” I say.

He looks confused. “Do you want me to go?”

“I’m just tired,” I say. “And I can’t sleep with someone else here.”

He says nothing.

We kiss a little longer, and he finally puts his sweater back on. Picks up his phone and cigarettes and slips into his shoes.

When I’m standing in my doorway, and he is in the hallway, turning to leave, he turns back to me and says, caustically, “Tease.” Then leaves.

On one hand, I feel bad for making out with him when I didn’t want to.

On the other hand, we never discussed sex, and making out with someone doesn’t mean I’m obligated to put out.

I didn’t mean to lead him on. But maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a tease. Or maybe I’m just not as ready to date again as I thought. Or maybe he just wasn’t a good match for me. Or possibly a combination of any or all of these things.

As soon as he leaves, I delete OkCupid.

If I do meet a guy again who makes me feel sexy and safe, who makes me laugh, who gives me space, and makes me feel loved…and if I do all of those things for him, then fantastic. But if I never have that kind of relationship again…maybe that’s okay too. Being happy and being single aren’t mutually exclusive, despite what all of those toxic romantic comedies would have one believe.

Despite misgivings, I’ll continue to put myself out there. However tentatively. Even if I’m not entirely sure what I want on any given day. And even though there is nearly always a reason to swipe left…I will still look for reasons to swipe right. Because after years of failed relationships, of one night stands, and missed connections, I’m surprised to discover that I’m still somehow a romantic. Love exists, not in meet-cute romantic comedies, but in the relationships that endure. In my faggles and my friends. My family. And sometimes, during rare moments of clarity, it even seems that love really is all that there is.

Or it’s all hormones and co-dependence.

I vacillate.

Astral Projections – Austin, 1999

Things that seem like a good idea when you’re horny rarely continue to do so when the feeling passes. Despite having already learned this life lesson, I choose to ignore it, because I’m horny. This explains why I’m driving downtown on a Sunday night to meet a man I’d chatted up on some sleazy hook-up site instead of going to bed at a reasonable hour like a more responsible citizen.

I see him first and am relieved. He looks just like his picture, indy funk in his early thirties, darkly balding with serious lips and laser tag eyes. He is sitting on the stoop of Spider  House holding an oversized cup of coffee, finishing a cigarette. He is a thrift store sweater in a vintage jacket and clunky shoes, worn and comfortably corduroy, in a warm, fuzzy way that implies snuggling and hot chocolate with marshmallows.

“Hey.” I say, as I James Dean up to him with my hands in my pockets. I am a t-shirt and rolled up blue jeans, suddenly self conscious, suddenly too pale and too skinny, suddenly afraid he’s going to see me and bolt, or pretend he doesn’t speak English, or that his name is Edgar and I must be looking for someone else. There are precedents.

“Hey.” He says, standing up. “Lance?” I agree that I am. He smells like stale cologne and smoke as he presses against me with an introductory hug. But I smell love on a molecular level, in coffee cups, in his pockets, in the tiny creases beside his eyes. There is an exchange of protons and electrons, and in my stomach an internal mushroom cloud of fumbling desire quietly implodes.

We both know it’s too late on a Sunday night for the coffee to be casual, but I’m still pretending innocence. “Sometimes coffee is just coffee,” I tell myself. “Eleven o’clock coffee on a Sunday night just means we’re alternative, not desperate.” But let’s face it, I’m wearing my just-in-case underwear. My body, at least, takes the situation for what it is, a hook-up, and responds accordingly.

He leaves one arm around my waist and says, “Where do you want to sit?”

“Anywhere is fine,” I tell him. I become so aware of his hand on the small of my back that it feels almost uncomfortable. The absent minded familiarity of it is burning through my t-shirt. It is impossible to think of anything else except how long it’s been since I’ve been touched by another person.

“Do you want some coffee?” He asks.

“I don’t like coffee.” I say, and immediately regret saying it, because I don’t want to seem negative or weird, so I try to recover by adding, “I mean I like it, but only if it has so much sugar and cream that it no longer actually resembles coffee.  So what’s the point?”

“Oh, you’re one of those.” He says.

“I like the way it smells?” I have a habit of ending statements with question marks like I’m not really certain of anything, because I’m not.

“You’re cute.” He says as he leads me to some benches in a corner beneath a tree criss-crossed with strings of year-round colored Christmas lights.

“No I’m not,” I blush. The smallest compliment and I turn into a stuttering, human lobster. “Anyway, I’m glad you think so.” I smile and say, “You too.”  I’m encouraged by the fact that he hasn’t invented an early meeting yet, an imaginary boyfriend, or some terrible, wasting disease before disappearing into the blind-date ether.

“Thanks,” he grins. “I was here earlier tonight with my roommate.  We had a couple beers and chilled.”

“Cool.” I say, even though I think beer is as repulsive as fermented dishwater.  I look around at the benches, the coffeehouse girls with their poetry notebooks, the heroin armed waitresses, square jawed bus-boys, the armless, outside statues, anything but his face that only looks at me.

“I used to come here all the time.” I say.

“Why’d you stop?” He asks, interested.

I tell him I don’t remember and excuse myself to buy a hot chocolate and re-group.

I’d stopped going to Spider House the summer after Jeremy moved to Minneapolis, taking down his Hopper prints, his Beatles CDs, his Monty Python DVDs, leaving one half of the closet empty. That summer and that place are superimposed over one another. Reckless nights with tall, blond impostors. The French films. The Russian novels. My heartbreak had an international flair.

I sat outside, slapping mosquitoes, smiling too eagerly at any guy wearing Converse sneakers, picking the blood smeared legs of squashed insects off my pale, white arms. It was a summer of carnage, insect and otherwise. My little, red heart was only the latest in a string of casualties. Everyone I knew had been dumped as soon as the semester ended and the objects of our respective affections flew to Minske, or New York, or Minneapolis.

I sat outside with the students who either couldn’t afford to leave, or who had summer classes. I sat with my same backpack, my Cherry Italian Soda, my Russian novel, even though I’d graduated a semester before, because the life of a student was the only one I knew. Already I was becoming obsolete, replaced by newer models, hipsters in skinny jeans and matching haircuts who listened to bands I’d never heard of.

I’d stopped going to Spider House because I couldn’t escape my burgeoning mediocrity, the unavoidable, universal truth that I’d become a twenty-something failure. My defeat was worn into the seams of the threadbare couches, scuffed on the unswept hardwood floors and buried beneath flea market rugs, invisible to strangers, maybe, but inescapable. Writing in journals and pretending to read, sipping overpriced beverages and looking for love in the bottom of every coffee cup had become my routine. I’d stopped going once the barista knew my order without me having to tell him because I was too ashamed that my life consisted of nothing else.

“If it was clear,” he says, when I sit down again, “We could see the Leonids.”

“The what?” I sip my hot chocolate gingerly, wishing I’d ordered tepid chocolate instead in order to avoid burning my tongue in case the evening leads to kissing of the French variety, as I suspect it might.

“The meteor shower,” he says. “It’s supposed to be phenomenal tonight.”  The two of us are looking into the clear, night sky.  The stars above us are dimmed and invisible from the light pollution of the city.

His insight into things celestial pleases the romantic in me. “Are you one of those guys who knows the names of constellations?” I ask.

“No.” He says.

I have an infinite capacity for disappointment.

“Do you go to Cons?” He asks, sitting perpendicular to me, his arm draped casually around my shoulder. Every move he makes seems so natural and fluid, and my own movements seem all the more spastic by comparison. I’m completely incapable of acting naturally.

“Is that a club?” I ask. I can be pretty oblivious.

“No. You know. Conventions?” He’s smiling quizzically at me like he’s discovered some new species of marine life but hasn’t decided how important his find is.

All I can imagine is a bunch of old men in red fezzes with name tags, and a cheap tablecloth punch bowl in a room full of folding chairs.

“You mean, like Shriners?” I ask.

“No.” He says. “Like, just a bunch of sci-fi fans and hardcore nerds. They can get pretty wild.”

I am quietly horrified, pegging him as a Magic: The Gathering player, one of those Society for Creative Anachronism geeks, sitting at a Renaissance fair in a Lyrca Star Trek uniform brandishing an oversized turkey leg. The thought repels me. Nothing good can come of this.

“You want to go back to my place and watch a movie or something?” He asks.

“Yes.” I answer without hesitation. What can I say? The things that repulse me can also attract me.

I follow him back to his apartment, me in my brick colored Laotian, economy car and he in his beige Volvo, driving faster than I’m entirely comfortable as we make our way along the one way streets downtown, afraid of losing him at intersections. I realize that one of two things is about to happen: 1). Either we are going to go back to his apartment where we will meander through some pointless small talk before having awkward sex on his small, springy bed, or 2). We will actually watch a movie. I wish I had a breath mint.

At this point we are barely more than wires crossing, than messages sent through phone lines, through the skeletal branches of winter trees, buried beneath the cold stone of vagrant city sidewalks, whispered along the peeling whitewash of suburban sprawl, a flickering image on my computer screen transferred electronically to his. But by the time I reach his apartment, I’ve gay married us and have us rooming in a loft downtown living scenes of wet nosed puppy Christmases and candlelit saxophone dinners with wine glasses, an adopted Guatemalan baby, his and his matching bath towels. My kinkiest fantasy is always a rough approximation of domesticity.

Inside his apartment I make an immediate b-line to his bookshelf only to be dismayed by its contents. His collection consists entirely of vegan cook books, biographies of the Dalai Lama, and pulp science fiction novels. My ability to imagine us adopting a Guatemalan baby is becoming more and more difficult with every new disclosure, but I still somehow manage to convince myself that there is a future laid out for us, a silver anniversary and a two-car garage. The truth is, I find it nearly impossible to have sex with someone if I can’t at least pretend that it might lead to some conventional life like the one my parents wanted for me.

We sit on his hand me down sofa with his yappy, little dog between us, the kind a wealthy, blond heiress might keep in her designer purse, nervous and deranged, all eyes and fangs. I get the impression that the dog hates me, and the feeling is mutual.

“I’ve got Jem and the Holograms and Masters of the Universe on DVD, and some old, horror movies, if you want to watch something.” He says.

“I’m fine with anything.” I say, inwardly horrified that we’re actually going to watch a movie.

“I’m going to grab a drink,” he says, standing. “Can I get you something?”

“Whatever you’re having is great.” I peruse his movies while he gets the drinks. Saturday morning cartoons from his childhood. B-horror movies. Documentaries on organic farming and spirituality.  I think, “My soul-mate would never watch The Secret.”

He brings me back a beer. I resign myself to it. I’m a lightweight who hardly ever imbibes so, half a beer later, I’m giggling at everything he says. I’m the kind of drunk who laughs constantly and tells people he loves them whether he does or not.

We watch Jem and the Holograms and agree that the Mysfits’ songs really were better. His hand is inching closer and closer to my knee.  He’s cute enough that I’m willing to overlook his poor taste and hippie underpinnings.  I imagine light-hearted arguments over our Guatemalan baby’s diet and religious upbringing.

When he tries to kiss me, his dog leaps to fill the space between us, nipping at my jugular, demanding his attention, licking his chin. She looks at me with one eye, letting me know where I stand, which is mauled and limping and preferably outside somewhere if she had any say in the matter.

“Do you have a dog?” He asks.

“I’m more a cat person.” I say.

“Do you have a cat?” He asks.

“No.”  I answer, smiling too broadly.

“Want to go back to my room?” He asks.

“Yes.”

He leaves the dog outside. I smirk at her as he closes the door. Small victories. He takes his clothes off and I admire his hardwood floors. His body is thin and pale, dark hair in sparse patches on his chest and belly like transplants steadfastly refusing to take root. He pulls me close and kisses me, his eyes closed, mine open, looking for a place to set my beer. Finding none I hold it awkwardly until he takes it from my hand and sets it on the bedside table.

Things proceed in the usual fashion ending in us both naked on his small, springy bed when he asks, “Do you want to fuck me?”

“If you’ve got the condoms and lube, then I’ve got the time.” I say. I have no idea who I am sometimes.

“I’ve got lube, but no condoms.” He says. “Is that a problem?”

My body becomes completely immobile.  Reading the horror on my face and my rapidly waning erection, he tries to reassure me with, “It’s okay, I tested negative a couple months ago.”

I am not reassured.

“I don’t do it without a condom,” I say, when really I just want to flee and not look back. He’s suddenly radioactive, and my built in Geiger counter does everything in its power to warn me away.

Disappointed, he says, “It’s cool. I can just suck you off.”

This happens. I float out of my body, drift into the cold night beneath stars, beneath street lamps, past all night diners, closed book stores, the late night coffee houses, through phone lines, radio waves, through all the dead ends and misconnections, thinking, “There’s someone out there for me.”

Somewhere.

Not here.

“Will I see you again?” He asks as I’m leaving, his face full of sideways eyes and crooked smiles. I appreciate his misplaced optimism. The two of us are on either side of his half-open doorway, him silhouetted in orange light from inside, me pale beneath the dim light of early morning sky.

“Maybe.” I say, my breath hanging soft and gray in the air between us like a question mark.

“Maybe later this week?” He presses, squinty in a pair of boxer shorts. Saggy elastic.  Any lingering romance disappears in the harsh light of morning.   He becomes another notch on my internal bedpost that, at this point, must be splintered and devoid of paint.

I slide out of his fingers, catlike through the crack of the open door, and out into the city to the street below.

“Maybe.” I call back to him. But we both know that I don’t mean it.